


The Point (And a Bump on the Head)

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Sam, Car Sex, Coming Untouched, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex in the Impala, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Impala is parked in the middle of nowhere at midnight. This is the point. (Part of the Chicago verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point (And a Bump on the Head)

**Author's Note:**

> Written on my phone at 1am because inspiration struck. Just a small drabble filled with smut and fluff. :D I love this verse so much. Thanks for reading!

It's midnight on a Friday and this is happening because it can.

There's a chilled six pack in the front seat--a pale ale wimpy beer from a brewery in the northern suburbs that still has a N64. Dean kicks Sam's ass in Mario Kart every single time.

No, sex in the Impala isn't that comfortable. Yes, there are two perfectly good queen sized beds waiting for them at home. But that's not the point. The point is to be here, in the backseat all fingernails and teeth and long, long eyelashes. The point is the curve of ass and the swell of heavy balls slapping up against that curve. Corinthian. Doric. Ionic. Every rib is a different pillar.

The windows have long since fogged up. Sam has long since stopped fighting against movement. He makes baby rock. He makes baby work her suspension and prove her durability. They have long since stopped using condoms. Bare and thick and rigid, Dean pounds inside. His mouth hangs open but it's for access. Sam kisses him dirty. Sam kisses him filthy. Sam blows his tongue just like he blew Dean's cock up front when they parked in this field.

Fields can't be found in the city. Past the suburbs and strip malls they took baby and Dean showed off her work. He proved to Sam that baby could still do ninety. She purred and rumbled on open rural roads where corn was all around them and not a mile of anything else. The point is here. Where Sam is riding his brother, fucking himself faster and harder on his cock. The point is Sam holding onto the front seats for leverage and letting his cock bob in between them, his long legs folded up under him. The point is Dean pulling him close, tangling his hands in Sam's hair, growling, biting at Sam's red mouth and breathing so hard in that Sam's lungs expand because of it.

The point is the thump and twist and twitch of what they're doing.

Five of the six beer bottles are empty.

It's November but it's still warm out like fall wants to linger, like it wants to watch.

The point is Sam coming untouched, desperate and needy and clingy. The point is that Sam's hands on him are accelerant and Dean closes his eyes and spreads out his legs and presses his fingerprints into the muscles in Sam's back. The point is that Dean loses it just as hard and keeps fucking up into Sam until the opening in Sam's cock gives another greedy squelch of come and there are tears making their way down Sam's face to the O of his mouth.

Sam slumps against Dean.

Dean slips out and plays with the hole he's filled to the brim with come. He pushes in three fingers and works Sam open further. Sam had four beers. He's pliable slippery liquid butter sugary bittersweet--mine.

Mine.

The point is that Dean can feel Sam gaping open for and from him. The point is that baby smells like sex and leather and beer and lube and sweat and the cologne Sam bought him for his birthday this year. Forty seven. Not bad. Chocolate rum cake this year. It was good.

The point is that Dean keeps his fingers inside Sam for a while. They rest in the back because there's no hurry. Nowhere to be. Sam rests his head on Dean's shoulder like he's six years old all over again. Dean cleans him up, just like he's ten years old all over again. Clean up now is different from clean up then. They hadn't always known. There's come all over and it's starting to get itchy for both of them. The point is that Dean gently slaps Sam's ass and grumbles for him to get the hell off because he's fucking heavy. Dean's left leg has fallen asleep.

They'll get home in two hours and do this again in the morning, just in bed, fucking slow until the headboard quakes. The point is that Sam mumbles something about red umbrellas and strawberry ice cream as he peels himself off Dean.

The point is that Sam bumps his head on the roof of the car and lets out a pained, "Ow."

"Sammy..." Is huffed in the backseat of a '67 Impala on a back road in the middle of an Illinois corn field years after the world ended and theirs started. The point is that Dean reaches out. He kisses Sam's forehead.

Kisses make it better. That's the point.


End file.
